


Dripping Sweet

by orphan_account



Category: Death Note (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Cake, Gen, Mild Blood, Psychological Horror, Surreal, mundane horror, sort of trippy, tbh it's crack treated seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:28:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25381615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: There's something wrong with L's cake.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15
Collections: Multifandom Horror Exchange (2020)





	Dripping Sweet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ratbat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratbat/gifts).



There’s something wrong with this cake.

The tea is fine – perhaps a bit too light, but L can safely reason that’s the glare of the computer monitor tricking his eyes. Still, he adds more sugar. Sugar is good. Makes things better. Helps him focus.

 _Plink. Plink. Plink._ Tea sloshes against porcelain as he drops the cubes in, one by one by one; more than he prefers, now, until the cup is filled to the brim and Light has stopped pretending to study data while studying L from the corner of his eye. Instead, he swivels his chair to stare openly. The movement tugs on their handcuffs and L’s knee knocks into the table, unbalanced. Tea spills. Light keeps staring. That’s fine. This is fine.

But there’s something wrong with the cake. Because L can feel _it_ staring, too. Watching him. Hungry. He’s hungry.

It’s moved. It definitely has; L is quite certain.

A bulb goes out overhead and the ceiling fan with the broken switch won’t stop spinning, casting shadows that flicker to become strange shapes before disappearing. But the cake has no shadow and it’s 1.2 millimeters to the left of where he’d placed it before reaching for the sugar. Yes, L is quite certain. Except cakes don’t have legs.

He stares at Light, squinting, then feels ridiculous. Light’s arms are not spindly enough to reach so far. Still, there are goosebumps prickling L’s skin beneath long sleeves as he considers the anatomy of Light’s body. It has always seemed too symmetrical, too textbook-proportionate. Perhaps if… he reaches for the hem of Light’s shirt –

“Ryuuzaki?” Light questions, eyebrows raised, and L has to make an effort not to flinch away.

His fingers still twitch; Light notices. But L’s gaze is fixed on his mouth – at his lips that are fuller than the last he checked; imagining teeth that look like clumpy frosting. L’s spine tingles – the pressure of a cold knife dragged down to his tailbone – and again, he feels the cake watching him. Hungry. His stomach growls.

“Is something wrong, Light-kun?” L asks in return, staring at Light though he quite needs to be staring at the cake. But this is how mind-games work – best to question first than to be questioned yourself. Besides, everything is fine. Nothing of importance has gone awry. Just cake. And yet L is stretching to grab a fork as he meets Light’s gaze, unblinking, all while the cake – the damn cake – keeps watching him.

Light’s eyes flit for a half-second: left, bottom left, to the tabletop next to L’s knee. And L clenches his jaw as he spins around in the chair to stab his fork clean through the cake.

5.3 millimeters. It’s 5.3 millimeters to the left of where he’d placed it when L drives the fork’s tines down hard, spearing the plump strawberry atop its center. The cake is luscious – three layers of delicate Victoria sponge stuffed with ample whipped-cream inbetween – and that must be why it _squishes_. Squelches. Like something fat and juicy, pierced. That’s it; it’s just the sound of the sponge’s filling. And yet L’s hand is trembling because oh –

He was right! He was absolutely right. He’s never wrong, after all.

The cake had been staring.

“What a coincidence, Ryuuzaki,” Light hisses. He doesn’t bother to conceal the venom in his voice. “I was about to ask you the same.”

Light is annoyed. Of course he would be, L thinks – it’s very rational since this time, it was him who spun and forced Light’s elbow to knock over the piping hot cup of tea. The tea is dripping onto the tile now, slow and steady, still steaming. A shame. It was perfectly good tea. But that’s fine. That’s quite fine –

Because the cake has stopped staring.

“Shhh, Light-kun,” L chides, “I’m concentrating.”

He is. He hasn’t moved a single centimeter, rather expecting the cake will pounce if he flinches. L’s palms are sweaty; he wipes one against the coarse denim of his jeans. The other is wrapped around the fork stabbed through the cake, gripping so tight that his knuckles are turning white. The metal is warm and slippery.

But L can’t stay here all night. One of them will need to use the bathroom, if nothing else – it’s just a matter of time.

He glances at Light. Light is quiet, and L is certain he can’t see the cake for what it is.

No. There are three likely possibilities, L decides, beginning to pull the fork back out slowly. The strawberry is quite round, he observes. Very round. He’s never seen one with such a rotund shape. It squelches again, louder than the rest of the cake.

One, Light cannot see the cake for what it is. Two, Light is in collusion with the cake and this is a trap. Three, L is losing his mind.

One is most probable, for Light's glaring at the cake but his skin is absent of goosebumps - which he would have if he _saw_ it, surely, for the hairs on L's arms are still raised. Two is plausible except Light has not had contact with this cake. It was ordered by Watari over telephone at the local patisserie; picked up and served by Matsuda. Besides, L monitors Light 24/7, could count the number of breaths he takes each minute. 

And three, of course, is least likely of all. So it must be one. One, yes, because - oh! 

L shudders; his limbs spasm as if someone's peeled apart his skin, lit a match to every naked nerve in his body. He scrambles back but the fork remains stuck, piercing the strawberry that's become an eye and is blinking. Blinking - blinking - L thinks as it blinks, not hearing the china cup shatter as his wrist flings it to the floor; not realizing when _he_ hits the floor in a crumpled heap at Light's feet. The tea is still hot as it soaks through L's jeans. 

And the eye is blinking again as it peers at him, bleeding bright red ooze that trickles down white buttercream to pool onto the plate until it rises past its brim. The juice spills and spills and spills, overflowing. Like a balloon stuffed with a bottomless stomach stuffed with blood, popped. L's bare feet are covered in scarlet. Sticky. Still, it keeps dripping, settling in the spaces between his toes, then drying. L flinches. 

The eye trembles and twitches - no, hundreds of eyes inside an eyeball, as if the strawberry's seeds have all sprouted crimson pupils. They blink in unison. Or perhaps they winked. They winked, certainly. The fork's tines quiver, like lashes impaled in flesh trying to flutter, and L's mouth stretches open wider than the whole awful slice in a soundless scream. 

He stares, jaw slack. Unblinking. The light that had gone out flickers back to life and the broken fan keeps on whirring, louder and louder - too loud. L wonders if he can safely reason that's the racing pulse of his heartbeat. 

Behind him, Light clears his throat. He leans closer; close enough that L's breath hitches when Light exhales and swallows. Salivating. He's salivating. 

But there's definitely something wrong with this cake. Because now L can _see_ it staring. Watching him through beady little eyes from inside a bulging eye that doesn't stop weeping blood. The fork quivers once more. 

"I was right, Light-kun," L murmurs, feeling cold sweat trickle down his spine. He was absolutely right. 

"Is that so?" asks Light, except his voice sounds clogged as though smothered by a heavy lisp. L has barely begun to consider why when Light rests his chin atop his head; buries his face in L's hair. Inhales, then smacks his lips.

 _Plop. Plop. Plop._ Thick globs of frosting hit L's cheek before splattering across the tile. It smells decadent like vanilla bean, and he has a horrible urge to taste it; to prod it with his finger and lick it clean. Ah, there's more now. Pouring. If this goes on, L calculates it will be about 4 minutes until he's buried.

And L shouldn't look up, he knows he shouldn't. He does, though. He looks up - to find Light's mouth melting, dripping. Drooling. He's drooling. And _oh_ \- 

Light's eye is an impaled strawberry that palpitates and winks! L screams. 


End file.
